How It Would Happen
by autumnlouise
Summary: After discovering that Irene Adler is still alive, four people ponder how the reunion between the Dominatrix and the Detective might happen. (Post "The Lying Detective", but before "The Final Problem".)


**i.**

This is how John Watson thought it would happen.

It would be a midnight text at Baker Street. The same as all the others– _I'm hungry, let's have dinner. I'm sad, let's have dinner. I'm bored, let's have dinner_. The difference would not be in what The Woman sent, but in The Detective's reaction. John had seen the look in his eyes when his phone buzzed that day, moaning with the weight of Irene's text. When he admitted that he still thought of her– that sometimes, he even texted her back. It was obvious that they felt something for each other, John thought, and one day soon, he'd finally crack. One can only remain silent for so long. And when he finally broke, it wouldn't be another move in the game. It would be real.

Whenever he came to Baker Street and found his former lodgings empty, a part of him always wondered if Sherlock was with _her._ Wondered if, one day, he would stroll into the house to find Irene Adler sprawled– possibly naked– on their couch, or the two of them cozied up in Sherlock's bedroom. Because it had certainly been more than a game between them, and both of them were alive when they shouldn't be, and how could they just let that connection between them go on ignored? _She's out there, she likes you, and she's alive! Do you have the first idea how lucky you are?!_

He was never particularly fond of The Woman, but he would not be unhappy if Sherlock chose her as a romantic partner. Some part of him hoped for it. He remembered those nights when they'd believed her to be dead, the darkness filled with Sherlock's mourning melodies… he remembered the pain of his own loss, all too fresh in his mind. The absence of Mary. Holding her in his arms. Her last breaths. Agony.

So he fervently hoped that _it_ would happen. Anything to keep his best friend from truly losing her. Anything to keep him from feeling the too-familiar ache of a lost love.

 **ii.**

This is how Mycroft Holmes thought it would happen.

Mycroft would have had to be stupid not to realize, after Sherlock's decidedly unemotional reaction to the news, that Irene Adler was not dead. His brother had been fond of her, that much was clear. And while he certainly did not deal in romantic entanglements and sentiment, he was certain that a man would not react calmly when told the woman he'd once loved was forever gone to him.

He wondered when she would reappear, if at all. Would she swoop back into London with a game of sorts, tying their hands once again? Or would she wreak havoc in another place, in another country, leaving a mess so large that only the Holmes brothers could clean it up?

But as the years came and went, bringing with them Mary Watson's arrival and departure, his brother falling back into the arms of drugs, and a multitude of texts from Irene Adler, Mycroft came to realize something. Most likely, he thought with grim resignation, it would not be the British Government that Miss Adler would aim for. It would be his brother's hands that she tied.

Mycroft remembered how easily Irene had used the sadness of her "death", the _hubris_ of a man desperate to show off, to get exactly what she wanted. She had toyed with his brother's emotions like it was child's play.

And now, in the aftermath of his brush with death, Sherlock was at his most vulnerable. Irene would act again, of that he was sure. She would slip past his defenses and ensnare him in her web, tantalizing him, professing counterfeit love until the moment he'd served his purpose. He'd be dropped. And crashing down from that high would be worse, even, than the cocaine…

He increased the surveillance on both his brother and Irene Adler as soon as the news of her most recent text came through.

 **iii.**

This is how The Woman thought it would happen.

She texted him often. Too often, some would say. Holidays. Birthdays. Anniversaries: of their meeting, her "death", the night it all had ended– Heathrow–, and the night it had begun again– Karachi. Sometimes even just because. Being dead was a lonely affair. From time to time, even she needed someone to share it with.

At first, she'd planned to return to Baker Street once the aftermath of her crimes had died down. She'd walk the streets of London and slip into his apartment, waiting curled in his bed just like before. But after the heartbreak of betrayal, the adrenaline of rescue, this time he wouldn't be able to resist her. Right?

But then he'd gone and "died", ruining her plans. She thought about following him on his travels, offering her help in whatever it was he was doing, but phantoms were difficult to track. Every time she thought she had him under her thumb, he vanished into thin air.

Years passed. She remained in the world of the dead. He returned to the living. She texted. He didn't respond. There were a few instances where she could coax a greeting out of him, even a few sentences– but never more than one text, never the promise of a reunion. After a while, she grew numb to the sadness that pricked at her heart when her texts were ignored.

Yet she kept trying. Some part of her knew that, deep inside, he still felt _something_ for her– how strong it was, she did not know. But she clung to it with each message she sent. With the rose she left on his hospital end table, the flowers she sent to John's wife's funeral. _Come now, Mister Holmes,_ she silently begged, because he'd asked her to so long ago, _you know you want to. Come play._

Finally, on a frozen day in January, she typed, _Happy birthday, Mr. Holmes. Let me take you to dinner._

Yes. How could he say no to that? It would be an evening to remember, to lift his spirits, to reunite after years of their games of cat-and-mouse. It would be a five-star restaurant, golden chandeliers, his tuxedo, her black dress. Blue eyeliner. Red wine. Dinner– both kinds.

But even this text, just like all the others, was ignored.

 **iv.**

This is how The Detective thought it would happen.

He was not well-versed in sentiment, but it would have been daft of him to deny that he hoped to see her again after Karachi. He'd saved her for a reason. He'd kept her phone, too. He knew the signs… but he refused to admit that it could be _that._ It was a simple attachment. An addiction to the games they played, to the way being with her was better than a hit of his drug of choice. Problematic, but not world-ending. He'd gone years without cocaine and heroin. He could certainly live without Irene Adler.

But perhaps he didn't want to.

After he'd faked his death, he debated seeking her out. Inviting her to be his partner for the mission, almost like John was to him back home in London. But just his thoughts of The Woman proved to be a distraction; the true apparition of her would be even more so. So he limited the time he spent thinking about her, and all his friends, to the lonely nights when sleep eluded him.

When he saw The Woman again, it would be witty. It would be an endless back-and-forth of verbal sparring, her relentless requests for dinner, and maybe he'd indulge her in a meal at a Paris bistro, but leave her at the end of the night with a bottle of champagne and kiss on the cheek, a promise of what could be. Blue eyes colliding, her red lipstick, the rouge of blood on his cheeks from scuffles with Moriarty's men. He didn't know if he could feel love, if he even wanted to, but having The Woman as his… partner… was not unappealing. He thought, sometimes, about what it would be like to solve crimes with her by his side. What would happen if he were to respond to her texts.

The same thoughts were what helped him through the worst of his withdrawals after Mary, after Culverton, after he went to hell and barely made it back. When the world around him seemed anything but real, he retreated into his mind palace, dominated by The Dominatrix. Several times he'd woken from a heavy sleep, his body crying out for the drugs, with her eyes swimming in front of him, her voice crooning _hush now_. But it was never anything more than a hallucination, the remnants of a fast-fading dream.

And after he finally got back to being clean, after he read the most recent text from her, he decided that perhaps it was best to let dreams be dreams. Because he did not know if The Woman felt the same, was the same as before– or if reality would ever be as sweet as what his mind had created.

 **v.**

This is how it actually happened.

The departures terminal of London's Heathrow airport was busier than either The Detective or The Woman had ever seen it. Dozens of flights arriving, departing, all across the world; thousands of people shuffling through the corridors, tickets in hand… if Sherlock had done as he had hoped and left Baker Street earlier, he would have missed her. If Irene had chanced one more night in London, one more day with Kate, one more chance to run into Mr. Holmes, she would have missed him.

After weeks of recovery and withdrawal, Sherlock Holmes was finally back to work, off to Rome for a case. And after a brief sojourn in London, Irene Adler was bound for America, taking a new name, a new face, to keep her identity safe. They should not have crossed paths. In a sea of thousands, they should not have found each other.

But for one brief moment, the stars aligned.

In the middle of the chaos, Irene searching the departure's board for her flight, trying to fight the urge to look over her shoulder, she saw him. His dark curls, that long Belstaff coat she'd worn herself so long ago– it was _him_ in the crowd, passport in hand, off to solve some mystery or another.

She couldn't believe her luck. Hope bubbled in her chest.

"Mister Holmes," she called, her voice lost in the din of the crowd.

And it was as though there was a thread connecting them, guiding them to each other, for as soon as she'd uttered his name, Sherlock felt the tiniest _pull_ inside his chest. He looked up. And there, just a few feet away from him, a ghost amongst the living, was Irene Adler. Disguised, different, slightly worn by time spent on the run… but it was undeniably The Woman.

They both took a step towards the other. There were so many words they'd left unspoken between them– _thank you, hello, goodbye, I hate you, I love you, why? Why? Why?–_ but none of them felt right to say.

So Irene settled for their old, easy rhythm, one the years could not change. "Dinner?" she breathed, a smile tugging at her lips. She reached up to touch his face, dragging a manicured finger down the side of his cheek.

His eyes burned with _something_ , and yet when he opened his mouth to respond it was not what either had hoped. "Not a chance, Woman," he murmured with a short chuckle. But he kissed her hand before he slipped away, a subject venerating his queen. A salute.

And somehow it was enough.


End file.
